


The Sun Melted Into His Bloodstream

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cash me outside bitches, First Kiss, Fix-it fic, Fuck the BBC, M/M, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10093142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Because we deserved at leastsomething.





	

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of The Final Problem, when John had just been pulled out of the well, and it was only Sherlock and John, I could have sworn they almost kissed. The unresolved sexual tension pulled my fucking heartstrings. 
> 
> This is the bare minimum we deserved. xx

_ “Help me save John Watson.” _

. . .

 

        They; Sherlock and John, were standing alone in Sherlock’s old front yard. It was painfully silent, even though Sherlock could hear the bustling voices behind him, coming from a small group of policemen that had arrived on Lestrade’s orders. 

        He glanced at John. His hair was dripping, soaked in old well water, as was the rest of his body. The towell a policeman had procured for him was now utterly soaked, and just as Sherlock was about to snatch it away from his shaking best friend so he could get him another, warmer, dryer one, Lestrade walked up. “I just spoke to your brother.”

        “How is he?”

        Sherlock could, sometimes, care a harshly small amount about his older brother, but his current surroundings were hardly the best for sibling rivalry to creep into his actions.

        “He’s a bit shaken up, is all.” Lestrade paused, “she didn’t hurt him, just locked him in her old cell.”

        “What goes around comes around.” John snidely spat out, pulling a vaguely disgusted face.

        It startled him, John hadn’t spoken since Sherlock desperately pulled him, soaking wet, from the well, and clutched him as close and as tightly to him as he humanly could. And even then, all John had said was a faint “Thank you,”  and a few other indistinguishable murmurings. 

        Sherlock hadn’t minded. He had simply been so, so fucking grateful to get his best friend back.

        “Ah.” Lestrade glanced behind them, evidently something his men had done had caught his eye. “Give me a moment, boys.”

        Before Lestrade could walk away, Sherlock whipped around and stuttered out, “Uh- Um, Mycroft- make sure he’s taken care of, he isn’t as strong as he thinks he is.” 

        “Yup, I’ll take care of it.” “Thanks, Greg.”

        Lestrade walked a few steps, then looked back at them, mouth open slightly as if he was going to add something else. He didn’t, only turned back around and hurried to his policemen. Sherlock looked away before he could catch a glance of them hauling his sister into handcuffs, inevitably sending her… somewhere. Somewhere where she couldn’t hurt anyone, or herself.

. . .

 

        After a moment, John spoke again, although not startling Sherlock quite as much as before.

        “You okay?”

        He wasn’t. But he couldn’t tell John that, so instead, he blurted out “I said I’d bring her home.” And after a pause that felt like an eternity, “I can’t… can I?”

        “Well,” John shifted, leaning on his better leg, and letting the towel slip into his arms so that it wasn’t wrapped around him anymore. “You gave her what she wanted. Context.”

        “Is that good?”

        “It’s not good, or bad. It is what it is.”

        John’s words rang in Sherlock’s ears.  _ It is what it is _ . He stepped forward, his stomach flipping and fluttering unlike it ever had before. “John,”

        He looked down at his muddied shows, desperate not to meet John’s eyes, but at the same time, wanting so badly to look into them- to melt into them, like sinking into quicksand the color of the sky on cloudy days, when only small patches of sunlight barely slipped through and rain threatened to pour.

        “I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d,” He couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had clawed their long fingernails down the inside of his throat. “If you’d… died.” 

        And just like that, before John could reply, before one more second of time could pass, before the earth could move another millimeter, before his heart could give one more beat, he pressed forward and crushed his lips against John’s.

        They stood for a moment, Sherlock’s hands on John’s waist, neither of their lips moving, except a few flutters in time with each other’s breaths. And then the butterflies in Sherlock’s stomach flew up into his throat and egged him on, and so he pressed closer, hips brushing up against John’s.

        And John kissed back, and Sherlock felt like the sun had exploded in his stomach. Warmth spread to his chest and his toes and the tips of his fingers, which clutched desperately to John’s neck.

        The sun melted slowly into his bloodstream.

        And John kissed back.


End file.
